Took McCoy the Boy to get a haircut at Sports Clips yesterday, which resembled watching George Bailey do the Charleston in "It's a Wonderful Life." Plus, the 'stylist' had a faux hawk, which goes against my basic rule of the haircut, which states: Never expect a good haircut from someone with a bad haircut.
Still, the McCoy hung pretty tough, kept his ears intact. And, though I'm admittedly biased, I think the kid has leading-man good looks.
Interesting marketing ploy, Sports Clips. Hang a couple of sport posters up, flip the TV to a ballgame and, voila, you have Sports Clips. Reminds me of the Chinese food joint in San Marcos when I was in college that billed itself as a "sports bar." For five bucks, you got a plate of grub, a lukewarm tap beer, a fortune cookie and 'Sportscenter' on a 14-inch box in the corner.
*****************************
Heaven arrived in Round Rock a few weeks back in the form of Third Base, a real sports bar just a few minutes from our hut. Bellied up to the bar on Saturday and watched the Buckeyes narrowly dodge humiliation against Ohio University. In adding to the agony, likely Texas's only Ohio University backer came and camped right next to me at the bar when OSU was down 14-6. Really, seriously? A Bobcats fan?
Luckily, the Bucks battled back, and the guy, a poster-child IBM employee, ended up being, well, a little shaky on the dynamics of how to act when the 'ol alma mater is on the verge of pulling off the biggest shocker in school history . No trash talk, no pumped fists, not even a rally cap. Guy just polished off his soda, settled his tab and shrugged, "Oh well, at least we gave it the 'ol college try." I didn't know people really said that.
I don't expect the same subtlety from USC fans this Saturday. (Get well soon, Beanie. Really.)
********************
On the subject of sports bars, Round Rock is kind of getting carried away. Within a one-mile radius at I-35 and 1325, we boast four such joints and two, uh, 'gentlemen's clubs."
Here's a quick rundown:
Hooters - Orange Running Shorts. Panty-hose. Camel Toes.
Tilted Kilt - See Hooters, only in plaid.
Twin Peaks - See Hooters, only with younger Hooters.
Third Base - See Hooters, only with jerseys.
Penthouse - See Hooters, only without the top.
Joy - See Penthouse, only without the camel toe. (Editor's Note: At least that's what I hear.)
Round Rock is trying to market itself as the "Sports Capital of Texas." Maybe we should go with "The Sports (Bar) Capital of Texas?"
************************************
Mondays are good days to "make this your (fitness) week." Here are some guidelines to strive for over the next 168 hours:
2 Strength Training Sessions (45-60 minutes/workout)
120-150 Minutes (cumlative) of Cardiovascular Activity
4-6 Small Meals comprised of protein, good carbs (fruits and veggies) and moderate (unsaturated fat) spread throughout the day
48-64 Ounces of Water/Day
Good ZZZZ's
Make a battle plan, and stick to it. One week at a time.
***********************
McKenzie's Joke of the Day:
Q: Why is Cinderella so bad at soccer?
A: Because she's always running away from the ball!
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Friday, September 5, 2008
Ball and Bono
Home on a Friday night, unfathomable in a previous life. But the kids are down, Bono is singing me a lulluaby, and Coors Light is my warm milk. Beats a kick in the crotch.
As summer turns to fall each year, I'm, well, I'm a coach's wife. Jenn is the drill team director at Round Rock Stony Point High, home of the Tiger Dancers and, until recently, the hapless Tigers. Friday nights are football nights, have been for eight years now, but McCoy is a most fickle fan. To a 22-month-old, football games mean stairs and bleachers and crashes and saves. To dad, it's Friday Night Frights.
Counting my stint as a sportswriter, I've attended a high school football game almost every Friday for 15 years (McCoy is sick tonight with a Darth Vadian chest thing, so we sat this one out). Truthfully, I enjoy the high school game more than any other level, the our-town-against-your-town nature of it, the balls-out effort from undersized kids who'll never sniff the next level. (Note: I wouldn't bunch the games that I'll see this season - Stony Point versus Vista Ridge, for instance, doesn't exactly capture my imagination - with an Odessa Permian-Midland Lee matchup "back in the day," but that's probably because I'm old and, like many a washed-up jock, the older I get, the better it all was.) College football, though I love it, is every bit a business, both in size of player and ticket receipts, as the pro game, and there's an air of "jobsmanship" around both that leaves me a little cynical.
That said, I'd give my pinkie toe for an Ohio State national championship (Get well soon, Beanie).
****************
Bono is done now and, somewhere, sleeping in his shades.
Here are my 5 favorite U2 songs:
(1) Where the Streets Have No Name - If the opening guitar solo doesn't give you chills, you've clearly had a lobotomy. The Edge could play a car horn and sound biblical.
(2) One - Voted by one publication as the greatest song ever, "One" is "two" on my list.
(3) Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For - But it MUST be the live version with someone who sounds like Nell Carter harmonizing.
(4) Tie: Angel of Harlem - Peppy, plus I'm sucker for horns. And "All I Want is You" - Because it's easy to play on guitar.
(5) With or Without You - Bit cheesy, but it was a good college make-out song. Also, did you now that if you listen to it three times consecutively, then once backward, then a fourth time forward, then you'll actually get a hickey?
You may note that these are all older U2 songs. The older Bono gets, the better he was....
As summer turns to fall each year, I'm, well, I'm a coach's wife. Jenn is the drill team director at Round Rock Stony Point High, home of the Tiger Dancers and, until recently, the hapless Tigers. Friday nights are football nights, have been for eight years now, but McCoy is a most fickle fan. To a 22-month-old, football games mean stairs and bleachers and crashes and saves. To dad, it's Friday Night Frights.
Counting my stint as a sportswriter, I've attended a high school football game almost every Friday for 15 years (McCoy is sick tonight with a Darth Vadian chest thing, so we sat this one out). Truthfully, I enjoy the high school game more than any other level, the our-town-against-your-town nature of it, the balls-out effort from undersized kids who'll never sniff the next level. (Note: I wouldn't bunch the games that I'll see this season - Stony Point versus Vista Ridge, for instance, doesn't exactly capture my imagination - with an Odessa Permian-Midland Lee matchup "back in the day," but that's probably because I'm old and, like many a washed-up jock, the older I get, the better it all was.) College football, though I love it, is every bit a business, both in size of player and ticket receipts, as the pro game, and there's an air of "jobsmanship" around both that leaves me a little cynical.
That said, I'd give my pinkie toe for an Ohio State national championship (Get well soon, Beanie).
****************
Bono is done now and, somewhere, sleeping in his shades.
Here are my 5 favorite U2 songs:
(1) Where the Streets Have No Name - If the opening guitar solo doesn't give you chills, you've clearly had a lobotomy. The Edge could play a car horn and sound biblical.
(2) One - Voted by one publication as the greatest song ever, "One" is "two" on my list.
(3) Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For - But it MUST be the live version with someone who sounds like Nell Carter harmonizing.
(4) Tie: Angel of Harlem - Peppy, plus I'm sucker for horns. And "All I Want is You" - Because it's easy to play on guitar.
(5) With or Without You - Bit cheesy, but it was a good college make-out song. Also, did you now that if you listen to it three times consecutively, then once backward, then a fourth time forward, then you'll actually get a hickey?
You may note that these are all older U2 songs. The older Bono gets, the better he was....
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Odds and Ends
There's a man, homeless I have to assume, who camps most mornings at the corner of Guadalupe and 38th Streets. His hair is long and dry and stringy, not unlike strands of overcooked spaghetti, and they usually pour from underneath a black wool cap. The anti-Ralph Macchio, he's probably 40 but looks 60, and he seems to side with tye-dye shirts and ripped black jeans. His boots have seen better days. Maybe you've seen him.
He sort of has a not-all-there look in his eyes, and I wonder if he should take up residence across the street at the state hospital. But the guy, despite the heat and his obvious plot in life, always has a smile on his face (I've seen better teeth on a rake, for the record). On my way back to the gym from Starbucks, where I've pissed away another two bucks on a cup of burnt coffee that I really don't need, I sometimes give him a buck. He doesn't ask for it, doesn't solicite work, no sign, no fake limp. He just pockets the bill, thanks me and returns to his faraway thoughts. His thin smile returns, and I go back to work.
Sometimes, when I think I'm having a bad day, and thankfully there aren't many bad days in my business, I think of him and the heat and the smile. I know it's all relative, but for most of us, it really ain't all that bad.
Sure, the guy might be a little crazy, but aren't we all?
************
So McKenzie is now two weeks into school.
I asked her the other day:
"So how's second grade going?"
Her answer: "Well (beat)...pretty much like first grade, 'cept now there's a two above the door."
*************
McCoy is nearing his second birthday. He has the world's quickest smile and (usually) a great temperament. Would reach out his arms to a vacuum cleaner. But the kid doesn't say a word. No 'da da," no 'ma ma,' squat. Not that he doesn't make noise - he's plenty noisy - but, despite understanding most everything we say, he has the vocabulary of a potato.
We recently went in for his 18th-month checkup, and the pediatrician said he needed to be saying at least 50 (FIFTY!) words by his second birthday, or he would need to see a therapist. (I can't stand the thought of him laid out on one of those couches).
Does anyone know a vetriloquist?
***********
Home Workout of the Day:
For those who have slipped into the Fitness Protection Program, here's a home workout that would take you 15-20 minutes:
15 Modified Pushups
30 Jumping Jacks
12 Modified Pushups
30 Second Plank Hold
8 Real Pushups
30 Bicycle Crunches
45 Second Wall Sit
Lather, Rinse, Repeat.
He sort of has a not-all-there look in his eyes, and I wonder if he should take up residence across the street at the state hospital. But the guy, despite the heat and his obvious plot in life, always has a smile on his face (I've seen better teeth on a rake, for the record). On my way back to the gym from Starbucks, where I've pissed away another two bucks on a cup of burnt coffee that I really don't need, I sometimes give him a buck. He doesn't ask for it, doesn't solicite work, no sign, no fake limp. He just pockets the bill, thanks me and returns to his faraway thoughts. His thin smile returns, and I go back to work.
Sometimes, when I think I'm having a bad day, and thankfully there aren't many bad days in my business, I think of him and the heat and the smile. I know it's all relative, but for most of us, it really ain't all that bad.
Sure, the guy might be a little crazy, but aren't we all?
************
So McKenzie is now two weeks into school.
I asked her the other day:
"So how's second grade going?"
Her answer: "Well (beat)...pretty much like first grade, 'cept now there's a two above the door."
*************
McCoy is nearing his second birthday. He has the world's quickest smile and (usually) a great temperament. Would reach out his arms to a vacuum cleaner. But the kid doesn't say a word. No 'da da," no 'ma ma,' squat. Not that he doesn't make noise - he's plenty noisy - but, despite understanding most everything we say, he has the vocabulary of a potato.
We recently went in for his 18th-month checkup, and the pediatrician said he needed to be saying at least 50 (FIFTY!) words by his second birthday, or he would need to see a therapist. (I can't stand the thought of him laid out on one of those couches).
Does anyone know a vetriloquist?
***********
Home Workout of the Day:
For those who have slipped into the Fitness Protection Program, here's a home workout that would take you 15-20 minutes:
15 Modified Pushups
30 Jumping Jacks
12 Modified Pushups
30 Second Plank Hold
8 Real Pushups
30 Bicycle Crunches
45 Second Wall Sit
Lather, Rinse, Repeat.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
I'm just sayin'...
...in the fitness business, I've learned that women almost always look better than they think, and that men almost never look as good as they think.
...there are THREE certainties in life. [No, not paying taxes (see Snipes, Wesley) or death (see Clark, Dick)]. They are:
(1) If it rains, even if you're standing in a Seattle coffee house, at least one person in the room will quickly responds, "We sure needed it."
(2) If you have any illness, even it is, say, scurvy, at least one person will knowingly report, "That's really going around."
(3) When you have removed something from your own body, you will undoubtedly, even for a nanosecond, examine it before flushing, flicking or hiding it.
...if the politicians of today would have only watched the "ABC Afterschool Specials" of the '70's, they would know not to drink too much (W.), to abstain from teenage sex (Palin) and to always tell the truth (Clinton).
...I will become a hunter the day the animal being hunted can sport a weapon of its own.
...each week gives us 10,080 minutes. For health and weight-loss purposes, commit between 180-240 - or roughly TWO PERCENT - of those minutes to exercise.
JOKE 'O THE DAY
So, two dyslexics walk into a bra.....
...there are THREE certainties in life. [No, not paying taxes (see Snipes, Wesley) or death (see Clark, Dick)]. They are:
(1) If it rains, even if you're standing in a Seattle coffee house, at least one person in the room will quickly responds, "We sure needed it."
(2) If you have any illness, even it is, say, scurvy, at least one person will knowingly report, "That's really going around."
(3) When you have removed something from your own body, you will undoubtedly, even for a nanosecond, examine it before flushing, flicking or hiding it.
...if the politicians of today would have only watched the "ABC Afterschool Specials" of the '70's, they would know not to drink too much (W.), to abstain from teenage sex (Palin) and to always tell the truth (Clinton).
...I will become a hunter the day the animal being hunted can sport a weapon of its own.
...each week gives us 10,080 minutes. For health and weight-loss purposes, commit between 180-240 - or roughly TWO PERCENT - of those minutes to exercise.
JOKE 'O THE DAY
So, two dyslexics walk into a bra.....
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Book Review - "Beautiful Boy"
Finished a pretty good book today at lunch - "Beautiful Boy." Hardly a warm-and-fuzzy tale, it chronicles a kid's struggle with meth addiction and, more specifically, the tireless fight of his father (the author) to save him. Often heart wrenching and well-written.
Could have done without so much attention to the author's new family - he'd remarried and had younger children - but subplot equals more pages, which equals hard cover, which means more dough. Also a bit over-descriptive, but I'm no fan of Steinbeck-ian drivel. Personally, I thought "The Grapes of Wrath" could have been 19 pages long.
Still, it made me want to put the kids in a Hamster Exercise Ball from ages 14-24. Meth is apparently the Granddaddy of 'Em All Drug, almost impossible to kick and easy to brew. Boasts Drano and battery acid among its ingredients. Nice. Can't imagine pouring such a mess into my body. Then again, I once knowingly and liberally consumed Meister Brau.
Overall, I'd give the book a 7.
Could have done without so much attention to the author's new family - he'd remarried and had younger children - but subplot equals more pages, which equals hard cover, which means more dough. Also a bit over-descriptive, but I'm no fan of Steinbeck-ian drivel. Personally, I thought "The Grapes of Wrath" could have been 19 pages long.
Still, it made me want to put the kids in a Hamster Exercise Ball from ages 14-24. Meth is apparently the Granddaddy of 'Em All Drug, almost impossible to kick and easy to brew. Boasts Drano and battery acid among its ingredients. Nice. Can't imagine pouring such a mess into my body. Then again, I once knowingly and liberally consumed Meister Brau.
Overall, I'd give the book a 7.
Alarm Clock Blues
I don't know which is more difficult - splitting an atom or finding a clear station on my alarm-clock radio. Time and again, I'm jolted awake by a medley of Tejano, traffic reports and Merle Haggard.
Monday, September 1, 2008
Holiday Spelunking
(Let me preface by saying that McKenzie and McCoy are the biggest joys in my life.)
Weekends, with two young kids and no parents or in-laws within ditching distance, can be long.
Holiday weekends, though, can be eternal.
This evening, out of curiosity and, frankly, ideas, we headed to Inner Space Caverns. (You've seen the signs, feined the interest, toyed with the idea of going Down Under.) So after driving 10 miles past the joint, hanging a U and learning upon our arrival that oh, no sir, no strollers will be permitted during your 90-minute tour, we began our descent.
Immediately, I was reminded of a bar in Juarez some two decades ago. See, when you grow up in Wes Texas (Odessa) and relatives (crazy aunts, cousins and the like) come to town, and once they've seen the best Odessa has to offer - the World's Largest Meteor Crater (a hole), the World's Largest Jackrabbit (a statue) and the World's Best High School Football Stadium (a sanctuary), there are really only three destinations. They are, as follows:
(1) Monahans Sand Hills: Picture the biggest beach you've ever seen. Then delete all traces of water. There are only two places I can think of hotter than the Monahans Sand Hills - (a) the center of the Earth's core and (b) the inside of a chicken pot pie.
(2) Carlsbad Caverns - If this were baseball, the Inner Space Caverns would be a Double A affiliate of the Carlsbad Caverns. We loaded the family truckster with distant relatives and junk food in a squeaky styrofoam cooler at least once a year and, at least to a 10-year-old kid, it was pretty cool. Massive, prehistoric, damp. Much like my Uncle Saul.
And (3) Juarez, Mexico. Across the border from El Paso and five hours from Odessa, it always seemed quite a jaunt to save four bucks on an Indian blanket or to haggle a hag for chicle. But my dad got dentures there for a song once, I won 20 bucks on a greyhound named Mister Jeff and, more to the point, I got buzzed at a Cave Bar when I was 11.
Today, it might be a bit un-P.C. to tote your third-grader into a bar and let him fall asleep in the booth under a few cloth napkins and the haze of Pall Malls. Apparently it wasn't in 1979. I vividly remember leaving the market place and following the clan through a cave entrance, down some rickety stairs and into a dark, smokey bar that had stalagtites hanging from the ceiling and rubber bats clinging from above. While my uncles and aunts and folks discoed and drank and drank and discoed, I sampled from their Grasshoppers and Old Fashioned's and Colorado Bulldogs and other concoctions that likely haven't been ordered since, well, 1979. It was, how you say, muy bueno.
Anyway, as McCoy clung to Jenn like a cheap suit (I owe you one) and McKenzie continually broke rule numero uno pronounced beforehand by our robotic tour guide Jan ("Don't touch ANYTHING."), I wandered ahead with the stalagtites and bats and my thoughts. I swear I could smell a Grasshopper.
Truth is, despite it's minor league status, the Inner Space Caverns were pretty beautiful. Millions of years in the making, perfection with little human intervention. Too bad we find a way to screw so many things up above the ground.
Weekends, with two young kids and no parents or in-laws within ditching distance, can be long.
Holiday weekends, though, can be eternal.
This evening, out of curiosity and, frankly, ideas, we headed to Inner Space Caverns. (You've seen the signs, feined the interest, toyed with the idea of going Down Under.) So after driving 10 miles past the joint, hanging a U and learning upon our arrival that oh, no sir, no strollers will be permitted during your 90-minute tour, we began our descent.
Immediately, I was reminded of a bar in Juarez some two decades ago. See, when you grow up in Wes Texas (Odessa) and relatives (crazy aunts, cousins and the like) come to town, and once they've seen the best Odessa has to offer - the World's Largest Meteor Crater (a hole), the World's Largest Jackrabbit (a statue) and the World's Best High School Football Stadium (a sanctuary), there are really only three destinations. They are, as follows:
(1) Monahans Sand Hills: Picture the biggest beach you've ever seen. Then delete all traces of water. There are only two places I can think of hotter than the Monahans Sand Hills - (a) the center of the Earth's core and (b) the inside of a chicken pot pie.
(2) Carlsbad Caverns - If this were baseball, the Inner Space Caverns would be a Double A affiliate of the Carlsbad Caverns. We loaded the family truckster with distant relatives and junk food in a squeaky styrofoam cooler at least once a year and, at least to a 10-year-old kid, it was pretty cool. Massive, prehistoric, damp. Much like my Uncle Saul.
And (3) Juarez, Mexico. Across the border from El Paso and five hours from Odessa, it always seemed quite a jaunt to save four bucks on an Indian blanket or to haggle a hag for chicle. But my dad got dentures there for a song once, I won 20 bucks on a greyhound named Mister Jeff and, more to the point, I got buzzed at a Cave Bar when I was 11.
Today, it might be a bit un-P.C. to tote your third-grader into a bar and let him fall asleep in the booth under a few cloth napkins and the haze of Pall Malls. Apparently it wasn't in 1979. I vividly remember leaving the market place and following the clan through a cave entrance, down some rickety stairs and into a dark, smokey bar that had stalagtites hanging from the ceiling and rubber bats clinging from above. While my uncles and aunts and folks discoed and drank and drank and discoed, I sampled from their Grasshoppers and Old Fashioned's and Colorado Bulldogs and other concoctions that likely haven't been ordered since, well, 1979. It was, how you say, muy bueno.
Anyway, as McCoy clung to Jenn like a cheap suit (I owe you one) and McKenzie continually broke rule numero uno pronounced beforehand by our robotic tour guide Jan ("Don't touch ANYTHING."), I wandered ahead with the stalagtites and bats and my thoughts. I swear I could smell a Grasshopper.
Truth is, despite it's minor league status, the Inner Space Caverns were pretty beautiful. Millions of years in the making, perfection with little human intervention. Too bad we find a way to screw so many things up above the ground.
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